


TELEGRAMA

by Ad_Absurdum



Series: Imaginary Fragrances [10]
Category: Imaginary Authors (Perfumes)
Genre: France (Country), Gen, Hanahaki Disease, Imaginary Fragrance, Original work - Freeform, early 1930s, this became slightly morbid somewhere towards the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-12-07 11:09:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20974916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ad_Absurdum/pseuds/Ad_Absurdum
Summary: Notes:printing ink, wood, bakelite, flowers dried between the pages of old newspapers, oudWhen to wear:They say a picture is worth a thousand words or that silence is golden, but words are sometimes needed as well. Be they written, spoken or sung, words have the power to shape your reality so be careful how you use them. Will they become a weapon? A spider's web that will catch the careless? A caress? The choice is yours and this scent might help you do that, but will you choose before it's too late?





	TELEGRAMA

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N:** The title is the name of the new perfumes that will be launched by [Imaginary Authors](https://imaginaryauthors.com/) probably sometime this year. Of course, their fragrance notes will be completely different and this story doesn't have anything to do with the story Imaginary Authors will come up with for their fragrance. Still, it just wouldn't leave me alone.  
Also, I don't know French and I don't know what the French in this fic is doing there. I just hope it's somewhat correct.

Charlotte Deuil worked at this post office for as long as she could remember.

Well no, this wasn't exactly true. She'd been working here for barely thirty years, but it felt like ten lifetimes already. Perhaps because people who came to see her every day were telling her stories of _their_ lifetimes. Short, concise notes - after all telegrams weren't for free and each word cost money - but if you put all the notes together... Well, you could learn a lot.

For instance, this young man waiting in line and tapping his foot impatiently against the tiled floor, was undoubtedly doing so because he couldn't wait to send a 'congratulations' telegram to one of his sisters. He had four of them from what Charlotte remembered, and it seemed like for the past few years they were birthing children at an alarming rate. By now those kids could probably man the entire French football team. Including backup.

When the young man finally got to Charlotte's counter to send his telegram, it did indeed say: _"Congratulations on the twins"._

Twins! _Mon Dieu._

Charlotte glanced at the people still waiting in the queue. This may have been only a provincial town but the post office's telegrams department was awfully busy today. More so than any other day, it seemed, but this was maybe because it was Monday. For some reason people were always more eager to communicate after a weekend.

Charlotte spotted the girl she'd been expecting to see for a few days now. Well, it wasn't really a girl anymore - she was well into her 20's - but Charlotte still thought of her as a girl. She remembered her as a baby in a pram, visiting the post office with her mother, and then when she grew up, visiting the office on her own to read newspapers, monthly magazines freshly out of a publishing office, and eventually to send her own letters and telegrams.

Charlotte was sure that today the girl was going to send a message to a writer whose career she'd been following avidly. It must have been close to ten years already - such devotion deserved a medal in Charlotte's opinion. And just a couple of weeks ago the writer published his new novel so the girl simply had to come to send him something.

And so here she was and the 'something' was a telegram.

_"Enjoyed the novel very much. Good luck with the continuation"_.

Charlotte doubted the writer could ever produce something the girl wouldn't enjoy. Although she remembered one of the first telegrams the girl sent: _"Weird story. But lovely."_

Charlotte suspected the writer appreciated the sentiment no matter how it was worded.

* * *

A few days passed and the girl was back at the post office to read the latest issue of _La Cinémathèque_. It was quite expensive but the post office always had one copy available for customers to peruse for free. The girl always made sure to set some time aside every month to come and read it. She really liked films too.

There weren't many people wanting to send telegrams today so Charlotte cast a glance towards the table where the girl was currently sitting, immersed in the magazine. Suddenly the girl's face lit up with the biggest smile Charlotte had ever seen on her. What had she just read?

Charlotte didn't have to wait long for an answer. The girl almost sprinted to her counter.

"I'd like to send a telegram, please."

"Of course," Charlotte replied, readying the form. "What's the message?"

"Congratulations on the script. I hope it won't be the last one. Looking forward to the film."

Before she left the post office, the girl bought the magazine; that enormous happy grin not dimming for a second.

Charlotte looked into _La Cinémathèque_ herself. Sure enough, there was a column about one of the writer's books being made into a film. The writer was even asked to work on the screenplay himself.

Good for him, Charlotte thought, gazing at the writer's photograph. Somehow she'd expected he would be older but the man looked to be somewhere in his early 30's. Quite handsome too. Could be an actor himself. And apparently he was also smart enough to author several bestsellers. Fans flocked to this one, Charlotte was sure. She looked at the film's release date - still this year. That seemed quick, but the picture would probably be a hit nevertheless.

And it was. On Monday, after the film premiered in the town's cinema, the girl practically ran inside the post office. This time, though, it wasn't to send a telegram, but a letter.

She must have been gushing something awful in there, Charlotte thought, watching the girl from the corner of her eye. The letter was surely about how she loved the story, how perfectly the characters came to life on the big screen, and how enjoyable it was to see in reality all the places she'd read about.

Ah, the youngsters these days, so excitable.

Charlotte's eyes followed the girl as she left the post office a few minutes later. The woman frowned slightly. Did the girl seem paler than usual? She was coughing too, but maybe that was just a common cold. The seasons changed abruptly this year and even though October had only just begun, it felt like winter was already here.

* * *

The next year the young man with four sisters finally became a father himself (he received no less than ten telegrams congratulating him on that fact) and the writer published a volume of short stories and was working on another screenplay. Charlotte started noticing his name in newspapers and magazines a lot more often now that he got involved in the film industry. There wasn't a week without some news about the writer's work or personal life, though the first far outweighed the latter.

The girl came to the post office regularly as well now. She wouldn't miss any of those news for the world and she even had her own spot at the reading table, where she always looked through the newspapers, _La Cinémathèque_ and the new _Arts & Literature_ magazine that had just been launched. Despite the academic-looking title, it was more on the popular side and the Main Post Office decided the local offices would carry it as well. It had the potential to appeal to the mass public and indeed, sell quite well.

Charlotte even glanced into the magazine herself from time to time. That's how this morning she knew the writer had just got married to an actress he met while working on the film last year. They seemed like a nice couple and Charlotte was curious how the girl was going to react to the news. It was unlikely she'd burst into tears but, really, you just never knew with those all-consuming crushes.

She lined up the fresh newspapers and magazines on the reading table and sat at her post behind the telegram counter, ready for another day of work.

The girl came in the afternoon. Charlotte had just finished sending the last (for now) customer's request and so could discreetly observe her.

She was definitely paler. The cold she caught last year must have been something more serious because she was still coughing and there was a truly worrying sound in that. Charlotte hoped the girl had seen a doctor and that this was only the trailing end of the infection, but young people were sometimes so careless about their own health.

The girl got to the news of the writer's marriage fairly quickly; Charlotte saw her make what must have been a quiet 'oh' sound as she stared at the printed page in honest confusion. Like she couldn't quite understand what she was reading. Fortunately, there was no sign of tears or any other horribly emotional reaction. The girl just stared into space, frowning occasionally, the magazine temporarily forgotten on the table.

Finally, though, she got up and approached Charlotte. She didn't look sad. Instead she had that slightly concerned look of someone watching how their friend was trying to pet a frumious Bandersnatch, and asking if they really thought this was a good idea.

Mostly, though, she still looked confused.

The girl sent the writer a simple 'congratulations' note and that would be that, except when she was turning to leave, she suddenly started coughing so violently she had to catch the edge of the counter behind which Charlotte was sitting, to keep her balance.

"Miss! Miss, are you all right?" Charlotte shot up from her chair, ready to vault over the counter despite her age, and help the girl.

"Yes, thank you," the girl said, still coughing. "I'm really sorry. This should pass in a second."

It eventually did, but the girl looked far from being all right. She took a deep breath and winced.

"I'm sorry," she repeated with a small smile. "The doctor said the coughing should stop in a few weeks and until then I guess I just have to bear it."

That doctor was an idiot, Charlotte thought.

"Thank you for sending the telegram. Bye." The girl turned around and left.

"Goodbye."

Charlotte sighed. She glanced around at the people filling the post office, but there were only a few of them and they were all minding their own business. She got up and quickly went over to the other side of her counter. When the girl started coughing, Charlotte thought she saw something...

Ah, and there it was. So this wasn't merely a crush.

Charlotte bent down to pick up several flower petals littering the floor. They looked like rose petals but she'd never seen a rose with such colours. The indigo at the very base of the petals flowed into royal purple which then gave way to deep crimson at the top. Charlotte wondered how the whole flower would look like... Beautiful, no doubt, but the petals meant one thing only.

Well, two things really. One: the girl's doctor really was an idiot. The second thing was that unfortunately the girl would probably die within a year. Hanahaki tended to do that to you, no matter how pretty the things you were coughing up were.

Charlotte threw the petals into the rubbish bin and took her place again. People's hearts were so foolish sometimes...

* * *

Despite Charlotte's dire predictions, the girl did not die that year. She didn't even look that ill in spite of the ever-present cough. It was as if she kept on living by the sheer force of will. Or stubbornness.

She came to the post office as usual, maybe a little less often, but still never missing her favourite monthly magazines. When _La Cinémathèque_ reported the writer's divorce - barely a year and a half after his wedding - she sat with the same confused expression she had after reading about his marriage. It even seemed that now as well she would be sending a word or two to the writer, but halfway to Charlotte's counter she must have changed her mind. After a brief hesitation, she turned away and left the post office, coughing worse than ever before, though.

Charlotte wasn't really surprised. What could you say to someone who'd just got divorced? _"Congratulations"_ seemed wildly inappropriate and _"Condolences"_ even more so. Maybe sometimes it was better to just say nothing.

That time, however, was the last time Charlotte saw the girl. A few weeks later there was an obituary in the local newspaper and the information about the funeral. Charlotte didn't go. After all, she was neither friend nor family and she didn't think it was her place to be among them at such a time.

Every day though, on her way to post office and back, Charlotte passed the town's cemetery. She could see first the fresh grave (they buried the girl right beside the fence, as was always the recommendation with Hanahaki victims) and then the rose bush growing larger and larger until it covered at least half of the fence with a mass of leafed branches and flowers whose velvety soft petals unfurled from indigo to royal purple and finally to deep crimson.

* * *

The reminder of that year passed uneventfully. The next year, however, managed to surprise even Charlotte. One Monday, around noon, when the post office was less busy than usual and there had been nobody wanting to send a telegram yet since morning, Charlotte saw a stranger with a familiar face.

Well, it was familiar only because she sometimes saw it in magazines. She continued to keep half an eye on 'the girl's writer' as she was calling him, probably out of sheer habit.

She watched as the writer came in, took in the surroundings and finally decided to approach the telegram counter.

"Excuse me," he spoke in a pleasant, cultured tone. "I'm looking for someone and I wonder if you could perhaps help me?" The writer smiled, a bit unsure.

"I can certainly try," Charlotte replied with a professional smile of her own.

"Here." The writer placed a slightly worse-for-wear envelope on the counter, sender's name up, and pushed it towards Charlotte. "I'm looking for this woman."

Charlotte saw the name and her heart sank a little.

"Could you tell me where I can find her? I've been to the place the address points to, but it looks like nobody lives in that house anymore."

No wonder, Charlotte thought. After the girl's death, her parents moved to another town - somewhere by the seaside from what Charlotte had heard.

"I'm sorry, Sir," she spoke with a hint of regret in her voice. "I remember this young lady, of course, after all this is a small town, but I'm afraid I can't help much. Just a couple of months ago she got married and then she and her husband left the town." Charlotte paused as if digging up the details from the depths of her memory. The truth was better left unsaid in this case, she decided. "I think they went to Paris, but that is all I know. She didn't leave her new address with us."

"Oh." The writer looked surprised and slightly... disappointed? "That's... fine. Thank you for the information anyway."

He slipped the envelope back into the inside pocket of his jacket, took his suitcase in hand and left.

Charlotte was sure this was the last time she'd ever see him, but that very same day it turned out she was wrong after all. On her way back home, she passed the cemetery as usual but this time, even from a distance, she could see someone lingering outside the gates. When she came closer, she recognised the writer and realised that what held his undivided attention were the roses hanging over the fence.

"Oh, hullo again." The writer smiled when Charlotte stopped her bicycle next to him. "These flowers are amazing, aren't they? Do you know what variety this is? I've never seen roses with such colours."

Charlotte shook her head in a silent "no". She watched as the writer fondled the delicate petals and then brought his face closer to inhale their scent.

"And they smell quite lovely too."

"Really?" Charlotte blurted out. She'd never smelled those roses, but then again, she'd never really had any desire to be that close to them. It seemed much too intimate, if someone knew how they came into being.

"Oh yes. Please, see for yourself." The writer gestured, still holding one flower to his face. When he spoke, his lips moved against the petals and Charlotte averted her eyes, slightly shocked by such a display.

Still, the man didn't know.

She briefly thought about telling him the truth, but that would involve admitting to a lie earlier. Besides, did it actually matter anymore? After all, this was just a rose bush; the medical experts were quite sure the plant eventually emerging from a Hanahaki patient's body retained nothing of its human host. In 99% of cases, anyway.

Charlotte sniffed one flower from a safe distance.

"I'm sorry but I don't smell anything." She honestly didn't. Maybe the scent was just too subtle or simply... not for everybody. Maybe even for one person only. And wouldn't that be an interesting theory?

"Ah, that seems a pity." It looked like the writer didn't really pay much attention to what he was saying. He was completely taken by the roses, but after a moment he released the flowers and turned to face Charlotte fully.

"I have decided to stay here for a couple of weeks. Do you perhaps know if I can find some hotel nearby?"

Well, that was unexpected.

"There is a hotel at the end of this street." Charlotte pointed to her right. "Ten minutes' walk at most."

"Thank you very much." The writer picked up his suitcase but immediately put it down again.

He turned to the roses.

"I'm sorry to bother you once again, but you wouldn't perchance have something I could use to cut one flower? If it's allowed, that is," he hurried to add.

Charlotte didn't see the reason to tell the man this wasn't allowed. The truth was that nobody really cared about post-Hanahaki plants one way or another.

She gave the writer a small pocket knife (you never knew what could sometimes come in handy) and tried not to show how unsettled she was by the writer's idea. When he cut a flower, though, and the stem didn't start bleeding and nothing else, nothing _strange_ happened, she breathed a sigh of relief.

"Thank you very much." The writer returned the pocket knife and took his suitcase again, at the same time handling the rose with utmost care. The cut stem was long enough so that it was clear the writer intended to keep the flower in a vase. Most likely in his new hotel room. Some people were just morbid, Charlotte thought but out loud she said:

"Not at all. I hope our town will prove to be a refreshing change and that you will enjoy your stay here."

The writer smiled. "Thank you. I do hope so too. I can already feel this is going to be quite an inspiring place."

"That is very nice to hear." Charlotte smiled as well. "Well, I won't be keeping you any longer, then." She led her bicycle back to the road. "I'm sure we will meet each other again. Au revoir."

She hopped on the bicycle and rode off, waving her goodbyes to the writer without turning back.

"Au revoir," the writer said to the disappearing silhouette. Then he tapped the rose lightly against his pursed lips; the petals seemed warm to the touch but that was surely just an illusion. He made a questioning sound in his throat and then started off down the road, looking for that promised hotel. He'd just got a brilliant idea...


End file.
